


Dance With the Devil

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gratuitous Smut, Season/Series 05, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 17:57:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11765304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: It always begins this way: this fucked up thing that they do.





	Dance With the Devil

**Author's Note:**

> Something short, sweet, and to the point before I get ready for the night shift.

It always begins this way: this fucked up thing that they do.

Blind to the dirty deed promised to follow, the camera's turned away. Focused on a corner where no one will go. In this quiet hall leading towards the boiler room, they meet.

"Like ships in the night, hm?"

There's a taunt behind that lilt when Prisoner Ferguson steps into the light.

Vera feels a flash of anger, sharp and sudden, akin to a knife sinking in deeper. By now, they've cut one another so many times. Notches on the wall could count all the fatal strikes.

"You're setting yourself up for the fall, Ferguson. You really ought to stop this cartoonish villain's approach. It's not working for you."

Her arms hang by her sides. She chews on her lips; they're dry, they're chapped.

Dark eyes fall upon her, observing in that silent way of hers. It feels like Vera's been placed on an altar, commemorated as the sacrifice.

"Whatever is the matter, Vera? Desperate for something that dear, little Jakey can't give you?"

The taunt comes across as a childish one: bait for the lure and Vera takes it.

Shadows on the wall come off and decorate the two women. Governor Bennett seizes hold of Joan's collar. She grabs and she rattles. Urges her onto her knees. It gets her high. Power's allure.

“Fuck it all. Just fuck me.”

She doesn't beg.

She doesn't have the time for it.

The allegorical becomes reality.

"You want it," Joan accuses after a moment of silent introspection.

"So what if I do?" Bennett sounds tired, annoyed, exasperated.

Joan takes this as her opportunity to strike. On her knees, she dares to venture, but it's a look she wears well – as though she's prepared to be knighted or martyred.

The trousers slither down her slim hips, pool around her ankles. They're folded and the weight is near agonizing. Cool air washes over Vera; she fights off the shivering, but fails. Betrayed by her need the panties fall. The heels stay on. Such a nice touch.

She keeps on most of her uniform. Her back rubs against the concrete. Through the layers of fabric, she palms her breasts.

Joan glances up above with the crowns are in sight: golden, gleaming, taunting.

Like a puzzle, they come into place. Joan grabs her legs which drape over her broad shoulders. Her thighs frame Ferguson's face.

Blunt nails drag over her her toned thighs. My, my. The Devil possesses a wicked tongue, tracing the slit, teasing the folds. Her nose brushes past the soft curls that guard Vera's treasure. She tastes like honey and poison: two great things that kill all the same.

She blows cool air over her clit. Manages to be everywhere and nowhere like Schrodinger's cat. Bitemarks litter her thighs; they'll take time to subside. She'll lie to Jake and say that she isn't in the mood. It's easier this way: to invent, little white lies while your former boss fucks you raw.

In rapid succession, Vera slams her fist against the wall. Her french manicured nails threaten to break, repeatedly scratching. On the verge of choking, she loosens her tie.

Wiggling her hips, she finds a better position. Her hips snap back and forth, compelled by a growing sense of wanton need. Engulfed in fire, her body does the talking for her. She's wet and she needs this undefinable thing.

She palms her breast through the barrier of blazer, blouse, bra. The stimulation isn't enough. This will never suffice.

"Oh, fuck" manages to slither out. Jaw clenched, her teeth click when they hit together.

The urgency of a good fuck come to light.

It's not enough. It's _never_ enough. Her ankles cross, her body tipped at an angle for Joan's ministrations to be vastly effective.

Moaning, Vera fucks herself on that skilled tongue. Wanton. Unabashed. Desperate. Hungry. Staring down at the dark crown, Vera grabs the base of her skull. Pushes her closer to her cunt.

Joan's stifled moan sends a wave of vibrations through her. It stirs a hellish heat deep in her gut.

She rides her face, grinding down on the mouth that traces heady kisses on her legs. Rides out her surmounting pleasure.

When she comes, it's hard and fast, the curled tongue continues to taunt her along with the fingers scratching at her from the inside out. She holds her face close to her wetness, her teeth, her need that threatens to build again. Gasping, relief comes as a temporary fix.

Somehow, Joan detaches her mouth from between Vera's legs. She legs her lips that are swollen, the taste promising to linger. She'll cherish ruin's flavor.

"Coming down from your post-coital high, I must ask you, _Governor_ : have you seen the face of your maker?"

Chewing on the inside of her cheek, Vera tastes blood. Tastes herself. The weight of her sins.

"I have better things to do than entertain you."

The glint in Joan's eye speaks in volumes.

“Ah, but you already are.”

Vera sighs. Like a puppet that no longer serves a purpose, her head falls back. Her hand remains on Joan's skull, on her broad shoulders, refusing to detach herself so soon.

Consider it a case of entanglement.

 


End file.
